As I've said, it doesn't exist
by shikamaru's fangirlxxx
Summary: A gift story from my brother. -Sherlock Holmes doesn't believe in love. Nor is he willing to admit that he may be wrong; especially not to his elder brother.- implied pre-Sherlock/John slash.


Well this is the story my brother wrote for me for our birthday; unlike the one I am writing for him this one is completed, on time, and really pretty amazing.

I'm uploading it for you with his permition ofcourse, so here it is:

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><p><strong>As I've said, It doesn't exist.<strong>

**1.**

"Don't be ridiculous Mycroft- we don't believe in love."

Sherlock Holmes barely looked up from the paper he was writing on, his hand continuing to scribble illegibly on the page as he spoke.

"You mean _you_ don't."

He kept his eyes focused downwards, feeling his stomach tighten a little.

"Pass me the silver nitrate."

"No, get it yourself."

Sherlock finally looked up from his notes to glance down at his brother in annoyance. The eighteen year old was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, looking decidedly out of the window, with an expression on his face that might have been described as wistful. Sherlock opened and closed his mouth without saying anything; deciding that the experiment was of higher importance; and then slid off his bed, causing a small avalanche of ink covered paper to go with him. He stalked over to the desk, taking a wide path around Mycroft, who was so inconveniently placed in the middle of the floor.

The wooden surface was chipped, stained, burned, and covered mostly in labelled bottles of varying size and contents. Sherlock stared resentfully down at the clutter, his eyes searching over the layers of paper and glass. The whole situation was simply ridiculous. And disappointing. Mostly disappointing. It was not as if his brother lacked the sufficient intelligence to realise what was important and what was simply down to people trying to romanticise the basic need to reproduce, or attach a purpose to their horribly mundane lives-

"Silver nitrate." Sherlock jumped at the sound while his mind tried to process the significance of the words.

"You were looking for silver nitrate."

"I know." he finally replied curtly, quickly retrieving a small stoppered bottle labelled Hydrochloric Acid from underneath a strip of photographic film. He turned back to the rest of the room, finding Mycroft still staring out at the cloudless sky, and as he crossed back to the bed was sure he heard his brother sigh lightly. The muscle below his right eye twitched.

"You can't possibly be in love Mycroft." He said suddenly, realising too late the detectable level of anxiety in his voice. However he quickly regulated this, reverting back to his usual matter-of-fact tone. "As I've said, it doesn't exist."

"Surely you can't conclude that without the proper experiments…"

Sherlock set down the test tube he was holding, his insides feeling hollow at the prospect of having to explain himself, and to Mycroft of all people. It did sometimes seem remarkable that he was the _only _one who understood these things.

"From observation it is obvious that what people label as 'love' makes little sense other than what was previously required for survival, for example a mother's love for her children is merely a mechanism in place to ensure she defends them. In the modern day, much like religion, it is used to aid the denial of the fact that our existence is ultimately pointless. I'm sorry Mycroft but anything you believe yourself to be feeling is purely caused by teenage hormones, I thought you would realise that."

Mycroft remained silent for a while, and Sherlock felt the hollow feeling fading as it was replaced by the spreading, contemptuous warmth of victory. But when his brother finally uncrossed his legs and stood up, Sherlock saw that strange, faraway smile still present beneath eyes that glinted ominously.

"You hypocrite. I've seen the way you look at some people..." Though it was said lightly, everything crumbled into chaos.

"That's purely hormo- I mean no, I haven't, I don't-" he spluttered, as Mycroft smiled once again and left the room before he could recover.

**2.**

Sherlock glowered down at the space in between his knees, his thin shoulders arched over as he leaned forwards on his elbows; unmoving apart from the occasional flutter of pale brown lashes as he blinked. Around him lay even more than the usual debris; the lower layer of papers covered by a collection of used glassware; among which was a small phial containing a congealing sample of his own blood; collected after he had accidentally crushed a conical flask several days ago. The landscape of piled objects seemed impossibly precarious, but the teenager was so still as he perched on the side of his bed that he could almost be a part of it himself. He blinked again as his ears picked up the sound of the front door clicking open in the hallway below, scowling at the arrival of his brother's footsteps over the doormat.

For the last few days the same detachedly happy expression had remained etched into Mycroft's features, and only seemed to become more pronounced in Sherlock's presence. He had even embarked on the habit of whistling as he returned from college, something which would have irritated Sherlock no end had his mind not been almost entirely on other matters.

Despite the very pressing problem of his brother's delusions, Mycroft's parting words on the subject sat in his mind like a huge, immovable boulder that needed to be worked at; chiselled away chip by chip before he could gain access to making sense of all his other thoughts. Systematically, it was obvious what had to be decided first; it was quite possible that Mycroft's statement was not at all truthful, and had in fact been a well calculated guess designed to demoralize him. If this was the case, all Sherlock had to do was to act as normal, and pass the whole thing off as one of Mycroft's frequent attempts to manipulate him. What Mycroft had referred to had only happened on a maximum of three occasions, he reasoned, and as far as Sherlock could remember his brother had only been present for one of them, and at the time was deeply engrossed in a book on Freudian theories. He could never be entirely sure with Mycroft though. So if somehow what he had said was true…

Sherlock was not particularly fazed by his recent attraction to members of his own gender; it seemed of little consequence when he would never have reason to show it, and he was sure that when he was no longer trapped in a fifteen year old body he would be indifferent to men and women alike. If anything it gave him a rare sense of having out-done his brother, who was even now chasing after some blonde, giggling girl who's only debatable asset was an appearance that Sherlock assumed must be somehow pleasing. At least men didn't giggle.

But despite all of this his insides continually gave a sickening lurch at the thought that someone- that _Mycroft _knew- and it was always horribly bad when Mycroft seemed to know things-

Sherlock sat straight up, detecting an unfamiliar voice among the sounds of the door brushing closed and the lock snapping into place. He paused for a moment, confirming what he had heard, and then leapt towards the door, ignoring the echo of falling objects behind him.

The door that lead to the sitting room was slightly ajar, and beyond it Sherlock could pick out Mycroft's voice; by the sound of it he was standing in the furthest part of the room near the window. His long fingers clenched tightly around the end of the banister, nails digging into the solid wood. Although he could not hear individual words, the uncharacteristically light tone was all wrong. And that was another thing; hadn't Mycroft progressed from whistling to _singing _that very morning?

Sherlock pressed closer to the door with the need to prove the suspicions already forming themselves in his mind. It was his mother's voice that he now heard, and his thoughts shaped and reinforced themselves around this new information even before he knew what she was saying.

"…quite brave of you… But perhaps you shouldn't tell your father just yet."

"I wasn't going to."

Sherlock had yet to hear the third, unknown person; perhaps that was why none of the pieces were quite fitting together. He just needed a little more information before he could retreat back into his room and mull the whole thing over-

"Sherlock!" Mycroft had never sounded so cheerful upon catching his brother eavesdropping before. Sherlock felt his face beginning to burn red, but before he could form an excuse and dart back up the staircase to safety, his brother had pulled him into the room, closing the door firmly behind them.

"Sherlock, this is William."

Sherlock blinked as different parts of the room shaped themselves into information. He hadn't been downstairs in several days, and this particular room had not been ventured into for a matter of weeks. His mother (who he had also not found reason to speak to for some time) was sitting in the armchair that turned towards the door, an open book face down on the cushion beside her. She looked as though she had been smiling, but a thin veil of worry now glazed her expression.

It took a while to pinpoint the subject of Mycroft's announcement, especially as his eyes had remained steadily on Sherlock's as he spoke, but the younger brother's vision was drawn to a movement as the nameless person who was now called William stepped forwards and awkwardly held out his hand.

"Hello." Sherlock slowly uncurled his fingers and shook it in silence.

William was almost certainly a rugby player, Sherlock concluded; his left ear stuck out slightly more than the right one beneath his straw-blonde hair, and there was a fair amount of dirt beneath the crescents of his fingernails. Though he wasn't of a particularly large build, the substantial amount of untoned muscle in his arms suggested an attempt to correct this in a short space of time, most likely as a result of parental pressure (or perhaps simply because he was not the academic type); he seemed to lack natural agility in his movements, and regarded their mother with only the occasional nervous glance, from eyes that were actually quite an unusual shade of blue-grey…

Sherlock was momentarily paralysed as he caught sight of Mycroft looking straight at him, but then managed to move his gaze to the floor instead, arranging his features back to expressionless. His brother's wide, sparkling smile had not faltered once since the four of them had sat down for afternoon tea, something which Sherlock had only agreed to so that he could collect and process more information. Only now cracks were appearing in the blankness of his observation; irrational thoughts and feelings were pushing their way through, invading and contaminating the factual areas of his mind. He glanced quickly up again, his eyes darting away when he realised he was still being watched.

His mother was attempting to engage William in conversation; they confirmed his theories about the rugby; but all that occupied Sherlock's mind were the two grey irises fixed on _him _despite the arm Mycroft had hooked over William's shoulders, and the beyond-all-reasoning fact that none of this was possible because _he_ was the one who-

Sherlock set down his cold tea, mumbled something about an experiment, and left the room, feeling Mycroft's eyes on his back all the way up the staircase.

Whatever chemical that had been, it certainly made an interesting stain on the wallpaper. Sherlock stared at the space in his hand where the bottle had been only a moment before, and then at the cold shimmer of broken glass collected by the skirting board, his fist clenching on empty air. A flat, quiet voice repeated in his head as he watched the slightly purplish substance drip sluggishly through the porcelain white; …_itdoesn'tmatteritdoesn'tmatteritdoesn'tmatter-_

Eventually he would make himself thing rationally, and eradicate the strange and unpleasant feeling that Mycroft had somehow taken something from him. This, and the urge to destroy something very theatrically.

A line of the liquid suddenly branched off into tributaries, one of which spidered erratically down until it reached the shattered crystal it had originally been contained in. Sherlock remembered what had caused the mess on the wall; the thoughts of blonde hair and blue eyes and arms that were strong but slender…

He kicked out at a pile of loosely stacked paper, now seeing instead his mother's proud smile before Mycroft had dragged him into the room.

One day he would prove why it was better to be indifferent.

What might have been several hours later, Mycroft pushed open the door without knocking. He leaned arrogantly against the doorframe, still beaming sickeningly.

"So, what did you think?" Sherlock turned his head to look directly at his brother, his expression blank.

"He's about as intellectual and interesting as a teaspoon."

"I know."

There was a silence where neither of them moved.

"Aren't you… surprised?"

"Honestly Mycroft, my mind is on other matters."

"As always." The smile seemed to have somehow spread to his voice.

After a long time staring at the ceiling, Sherlock finally head a rustling as his brother began to leave. Beneath the brushing sound of the door closing, he heard Mycroft mutter something that sounded mostly like "If you're sure…"

Sherlock never came across William again. The next summer he was replaced by a girl called Jennifer, and their mother- being their mother- knew not to ask.

**3.**

Twenty-three years later, Sherlock's eyes followed his brother's own gaze as they watched a shorter, ash-blonde man shuffle around the narrow kitchen worktops of 221B Baker Street.

"Sugar?" The man looked inquiringly over his knit-clad shoulder at Mycroft, who Sherlock could swear smirked a little before answering with a curt "No." Sherlock's lower eyelid jumped slightly, but he remained in stony silence, which soon spread uncomfortably to the rest of the room.

"Funny sort of weather isn't it?"

John Watson could have said anything else in the world and it would have been less mundane. Sherlock cringed internally. Mycroft's smirk was only just short of overtly gleeful.

Of course Sherlock knew what John really meant; could imagine him attempting to explain (whilst trying not to sound too strange) that there was something in the combination of fat, clear raindrops spattering the pavements, with the almost white sunlight that spilled through them; perhaps the rarity of it was in itself enough to turn the street outside into something new and fascinating, maybe even a little beautiful… But John was far too conscious of the medium others called "normal" to express such things in front of a man he had only just met.

So instead that condescending, infuriating, and completely ridiculoussmile of Mycroft's was practically obscuring his face, and as John obliviously stirred the tea, Sherlock almost heard his own words echo back at him through the years, emanating from the upturned corner of his brother's lips;

…_About as intellectual and interesting as a teaspoon. _

Well that wasn't true; Mycroft had no right to think about John like that when he barely even knew-

Sherlock did his best to look uninterested, which was his standard defence in the occasional case of Mycroft being utterly insufferable. What did it matter if his brother thought his flatmate to be a little on the dull side? If only that muscle below his eye would stop its incessant twitching.

John was handing out the mugs of tea, apologising a little excessively for their chipped state, though Sherlock knew that really Mycroft had been surprised that there was anything at all in the flat fit for human consumption. Perhaps he should purposefully have fed him something that wasn't…

But John interrupted this train of thought, leaning on the arm of the sofa to pass over the tea, complete with four and a half sugars. Sherlock inhaled instinctively, holding deep in his lungs the smell that had recently become so pleasant, despite his indifference for the drink itself. A small, unnoticed smile crept up the side of his face. But when he opened his eyes he found the stiff-backed, calculating intrusion of Mycroft still perched in the armchair to his left, and finally snapped irritably;

"If you'll excuse me, Mycroft, to what do we owe this unannounced visit?"

"I merely wished to check up on my dear brother." He smiled blithely, though his eyes glinted and flickered onto John as he said it. Sherlock's stomach twisted.

"Well it's a good thing we were in…" John was back in the kitchen with his own mug, looking more than a little uncomfortable.

"So have you told mother about Dr. Watson here then?" there it was again; the smile, the tiny flicker of his eyes.

"Please, call me J-"

"No, I haven't. I don't see why it's of importance."

"Why not? I'm sure she'd be very happy for you…"

"As pleased as she would no doubt be to hear that there is someone willing to share rooms with me, no, Mycroft, I have not yet had the opportunity to inform her of such a trivial matter."

Sherlock took a moment to remember to breathe.

John was looking between the two brothers, his face a picture of confusion, until his eyes met Sherlock's and he quickly looked out of the window.

"So, Dr. Watson," John jumped, almost dropping his mug and going slightly red.

"John, please-"

"I take it you're not married… any girlfriend to speak of?" John blushed noticeably this time.

"Err- well- sort of I suppose…"

And this time it was Sherlock who was the subject of that quick, malicious glance.

"Well Mycroft I'm sorry but I'm very occupied with a case at the moment, you'll have to come back some other time, of course you're very busy as well so perhaps not but never mind I think it would be better if you left now…" Sherlock was forgetting to breathe while he spoke again.

"But Sherlock, we were just getting acquainted-"

"As I said- very important case can't possibly lose any more time-" he pulled the unfinished tea from his brother's hand and half-dragged him towards the door. As they reached it Mycroft extracted himself from Sherlock's surprisingly strong grip, leaned in, and with a backwards glance through the frame whispered;

"_Really _Sherlock… he's not even that good looking." Then he stepped out, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Sherlock slowly turned back to the flat and to John, who was staring blankly at the closed door, his blue-grey eyes impossibly wide.

"What the hell was that all about?"

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><p>Thankyou very much bro :)<p>

And thankyou to all the people who wished us both a happy birthday, twas brilliant :) If you want to read my (still under construction) exchange story present then its here in my profile, although I must warn you it isn't nearly as good.

ps. the allusions to the "funny sort of weather" was infact a rather adorable attempt on his part to subtley include a rainbow without anyone noticing...

you're going to kill me for calling you adorable over the internet now, aren't you? please don't- I love you really :P

As always thankyou for everyone who's read this- and please review if you want help me persuade him his writing isn't embarassing x


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